


On Her Majesty's Not-So-Secret Service

by epithetta



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:49:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithetta/pseuds/epithetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Team Torchwood finds that guarding the crown princes from alien assassination gets harder every year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Her Majesty's Not-So-Secret Service

**Author's Note:**

> Written utilising the whoverse_las prompt 1.10, the following quote: _"The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective." ~Robert Brault_

"What are you supposed to be?" Jack asked Gwen when they strolled through the doors of the party, arm in arm.

Gwen pointed to the nametag pinned to her lapel: Mimi.

"No," he said, straightening his tie. "Really?"

Gwen smiled. "Dare me to."

A glance about revealed that they were fifth in line from the Prince of Wales. "No. Absolutely not." The woman in front of them turned and gave him the eye. That was right. Women loved a man in a tux. He winked at her and she turned abruptly, but not before he saw that nictitating membrane slide over her eye.

"You're not even in a costume," Gwen said, slapping his arm. "Unless you're going as someone from the twenty-first century."

He was going to make a joke about everything changing, but at that moment the lady in front of them reached into the folds of her dress and palmed something, and Jack heard the whine of a triple-D class snicktblade as it fired on. Oh, these cheap assassins and their noisy toys. He'd give her pointers on the proper way to go about killing heads of state, but Gwen was already tapping her on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, I have to say that I love your costume," she murmured into the woman's ear. Jack sank the centimetre-long syringe into the woman's neck on the other side, then reached to catch her as she passed out into his arms. "Oh dear," Gwen exclaimed, eyes wide. "I think the excitement's too much for her."

Jack tapped his ear. "Containment?"

"I have a flower lorry by the kitchen entrance," Ianto said crispy through the bluetooth, "but you might want to hurry. There are worrisome readings in the private powder room."

Oh, and so the assassination season began on the Princes of Wales. What a fun night it was going to be.

Jack grabbed one of the female assassin's arms and slung it over his shoulder while the whole room of guests watched. He thumbed at her face and shrugged.

"No ticket."

That's whom he should have come as—Harrison Ford.

***

"Do you remember last time they had a costume ball, and those three Slitheen came dressed as circus tumblers?" Gwen said as they stared at the three tentacles coming from the cloakroom. One of them slapped the marble flooring.

Jack sighed and stared down at his once-pristine boiled shirtfront. He'd looked so good until that pudding filled with Traxx nanites had exploded in his hands. Now everything smelt like almonds, and he was never getting his deposit back. Had he bought this or rented it? He couldn't even remember. Oh hell, if Ianto liked it as much as his face seemed to show when Jack'd put it on, he'd buy one for every day of the week.

"I don't know how they thought they could hide the smell," he replied, reaching into his pocket and coming up empty. "I used my last wet-nap. Do you…?"

"Are you joking?" Gwen smoothed the front of her dress with her hands. "You're lucky I was able to get a gun in here."

The tentacle closest to them was shiny, and he wondered if it was coated in neurotoxin. This year was shaping up to be the worst royal Halloween bash ever, and that was saying a lot.

"Well then, we are in a bit of a pickl—"

A jet of flame shot out from the other side of the hallway and licked the tentacles, which retreated back into the coatroom. The flames followed them into the room, and then there was a shriek, and a _pop_ and the longest tentacle flopped out into the hallway, stone dead.

"Oh, well, then," Gwen said, pulling her dress down. "I guess we don't need my gun."

"Where's your gun again?" Jack asked, running his eyes over the sequined dress that showed, well, _everything_. Gwen gave him a small smile and took one of the decorative swords from the crest on the wall and slipped into the coatroom.

"You're right, this does put last year into perspective." Ianto stood in the hallway and blew on the end of the flame-thrower. His suit looked a but worse for wear, but it was the same one he'd put on in the dark this morning.

"What are _you_ supposed to be?"

Ianto pointed to the nametag on his lapel: ~~Shirley~~.

"What should I call you then?" Jack asked as he kicked a tentacle back into the room.

Ianto's mouth twitched. "They call me Mister—"

"I think you might have incinerated Princess Beatrice's fox fur coat," Gwen said from inside the coatroom. "Either that or someone is missing a Pomeranian." She popped her head out the doorway and held up something charred and possibly smellier than a Slitheen in a little person skin.

"Pardon me," said a voice behind them, and they all turned in unison, plastering smiles on their faces. "Are you all quite finished?"

There was a chorus of mumbled 'Yes, Ma'am' in the key of Torchwood, and Jack grinned. Women loved men in a tux.

"Well then, you are all dismissed. And Captain Harkness, you make a dashing double-oh-seven."

Jack reached up to straighten his tie again. "Thank you, ma'am."

Ianto let out his breath when Her Majesty rejoined the party. "How do you _do_ that?" he asked, holding out the empty duffel so that Jack could steady it before jamming the cooled flame-thrower inside. "Doesn't she scare the ever-loving—"

Jack spread his hands. "Look at me. Can James Bond be intimidated?"

"James Bond? I thought you were Mister Bean," Gwen replied as she yanked her coat from under a pile of half-incinerated ermine. She brushed it off, sniffed it, and then tugged it on. "Are we out of here? I'm starving and all they have here is grilled Brie."

"That's the most promising thing I've heard all night." Jack threw his arms around Gwen and Ianto's shoulders. "Come on ladies, first drink is on MI6."

END


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